i can still feel your heart beat fast
by free-pirate
Summary: An anthology of slash drabbles/ficlets that I'm constantly adding to. Be careful. As stated, it's a collection of slash drabbles.
1. Unsuspecting Sunday Morning

**A/N:** As stated previous in my other drabble/ficlet anthology, I write a lot of these and it's better to put them in one place than post them seperately. Also, sorry for spamming your watchlist. I think might kill me for my updates if I keep going. XD

Not mine. I just like to play.

_Unsuspecting Sunday Morning_

It's almost unfair the way it hits him out of the blue one day. They're walking down the main street of whatever town they're staying in this time - another few days that'll most likely turn into a week. The sidewalk closest to the shop fronts is filled with stands of fruits and vegetables, wooden carts filled with home-grown produce, and it's almost quaint. Would be, if they didn't see the same thing universally every spring.

Dean's chattering away, gesturing animatedly, but Sam's not really listening. His hands are jammed in his pockets, watching the sidewalk, happy to just be out in the open air. Happy to be somewhere that isn't a crappy apartment or shotgun in Dean's car.

Halfway through what's probably an entertaining story, Dean obviously realizes exactly how captivated his audience is and changes pace.

"... and I swear it was this long."

Sam blinks owlishly, has to shake his hair out of his eyes before he can see properly. "Wait, what?"

Dean's half-laughing, half-exasperated expression startles him. He stops walking and just looks for a second, completely forgetting the fact that he's staring. Because yeah, he's seen his brother a million times before in varying degrees of annoyed, happy, stormy, and disbelieving, but he's just now _seeing_ him.

And god, Sam knows he's been in a teenage slump for a while, but he really must have had his head in the clouds to have missed this.

Dean stops walking a few paces ahead, doesn't seem to notice Sam's stopped, and turns back. "Sam?"

He's moving before he realizes it, body completely on autopilot; Dean keeps watching, blissfully confused, as Sam pushes him against the conveniently-placed lamppost and kisses him.

It isn't much of a kiss, not at first - Sam's kissed girls before, but it's nothing like that now. Dean is still for a moment, tense beneath him, before he just... opens. He brings his arms up; Sam thinks Dean is going to push him away, but his strong fingers just tangle in his hair and pull him closer.

The old woman at the fruit stand behind Sam clicks her tongue disapprovingly. Sam sighs into Dean's mouth and thinks that the best part, besides the fact that Dean is so perfect it's _painful_, is that she doesn't know they're brothers.


	2. Sunbeam

_Sunbeam_

They curtains aren't closed; the slats on the blinds are turned far enough away to block the view, but the sunlight still worms it's way in past them, filtering through the glass and hitting a spot on the carpet. It must have once been a nice beige color, but now it's more of a muddy brown from lack of housekeeping and the trample of thousands of nameless feet.

As he watches the dust motes swirl there, drifting in and out of the beam of light, Dean can feel Sam's arm slung across his middle; warm, heavy weight that won't let him escape, even for a while. He needs to get away from this thing they've done, to stand somewhere far away and examine it from a distance, where the details are glazed and indistinct.

But Sam anchors him there even in sleep, forcing him to look at it head-on like he will when he wakes up. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe, if he freaks out in the silence with only the dust motes as company, Sam doesn't need to know that he's done it at all.


	3. Untitled

_Untitled_

When they climb into the car on warm August mornings, it's unbearably hot. All of the previous day's heat is trapped in. Only a tiny bit escapes through the small slits in the windows they leave open, and then only to prevent the heat from building so much that the back window busts.

And it smells of leather. Some chemical process Sam hasn't bothered looking up, something about the seats being genuine, or maybe it's a sense-memory carried down through years of being in the car on warm August mornings. It doesn't matter, though. Just an accepted fact of life.

When Dean finds them rest stops on hot August afternoons, when the heat of the day is bleeding away and it's just starting to fade into evening, the smell of leather is all but gone. Aired-out by the windows rolled down, stolen by the artificial cold if Dean's had a chance to fix the air conditioner - it doesn't matter.

The only way Sam finds it now is with his face buried where the stitches are, in that deep forgotten place that's probably just as new as the day it rolled off the manufacturing line. No matter how much the car's been through, mangled, forced to endure mounds of cheeseburger wrappers and the occasional hook-up, the crease always smells like newly-oiled leather.

He finds that he seeks it, even as Dean fucks into him or distracts him with his mouth. On those hot August afternoons that fade slowly into evening, the sentimentality of the only thing about the car that's ever been truly his is what gets to him, even over the fever-haze of sensation rippling down his spine. That sticks, more than anything, filed away with the specific green of his brother's eyes and the distinct, punctured sound of a rifle's report.


End file.
